Before the Well of Wisdom: A Tale of the Variags
by James P. Darcy
Summary: On the cusp of the War of the Ring, a young Khandian nomad escapes the twisted grasp of Saruman and shoulders the burden of finding a savior to insure the safety of her people. Unfortunately, heroes are few and the brave are otherwise occupied. Boromir/OC
1. Forward and Prologue

**Before the Well of Wisdom: A Tale of the Variags**

Author: James P. Darcy

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _The Lord of the Rings_ or any of its characters in part or whole. Likewise, I will not be receiving payment for this or any subsequent posting. All characters and/or ideas produced outside of the canon are creations or alterations of my own imagination, and this work may not be copied or redistributed without my permission.

**Warnings**: Slightly AU, violence, swearing, sexual situations

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><p><strong>Forward<strong>

Conducting research to uncover the mysteries of Khand was extremely difficult, as Tolkien wrote very little for admirers like us to expand on. I've concluded, for the purpose of this story, that most 'Khandian' people could be separated into two categories: nomadic horsemen and Variags. Given that Khandian terrain was probably desert-like, with perhaps plains of grass or rocky mountain ranges scattered throughout, a nomadic/tribal lifestyle seems probable. The Variags would exist within some of these tribes as warriors, similar to Vikings of historical Scandinavia, although not every tribe would produce accurate specimens in size and strength. Due to this unfortunate gamble, many self-elected Variag leaders would form their own tribes and breed within a select group. Variag women were rarely warriors, as their importance was restricted to producing offspring and caring for the horses; however, when the occasional female was bred with the appropriate attributes of a warrior, she was utilized. As far as language is concerned, I've created a small lexicon of the words and phrases used by Variag characters, which will be updated as necessary and placed at the end of the chapter.

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><p><strong>Prologue<br>**

_Years ago, after the Secondborn had dispersed and founded their own lands, a group of travelers from the North roamed the plains of Rhovanion, seeking adventure and vacant land to settle in the South. Their wanderings led them to Khand, a land of barren deserts, where pools of water were few or otherwise contaminated by the soil, and ravenous beasts with thick furred hides threatened death. The travelers were harsh men, accustomed to the heat of day breaking down on their backs and the weight of an axe after the sky had turned dark, but this land proved a worthy adversary and would not be easily tamed. They lost many that first year, when scavenging was unfruitful and appropriate dwellings were scarce. Some were afraid and turned back to the North, but their small numbers were easily over-taken by the desert beasts._

_All hope seemed lost, until a band of nomads happened upon their camp. Generous were these people with dark skin and eyes, much darker than the Northmen had ever seen. They shared their nourishment and their tents, instructing the visitors how to procure such things on their own. However, strong was this bond between the two, and generations later the Northmen had blended seamlessly into the Khandian tribe. Their heirs had the agility of the lithe nomads but the stature and strength of the men of the North. Most were dark in coloring, although the occasional child was born with striking red hair, a strange anomaly but a testament to a portion of his heritage._

_It was not until multiple tribes had been established and their numbers had flourished that an elder wizard appeared at their camp. He was a traveler, much like their ancestors the Northmen, but held vast knowledge of the outside world and owned the power of persuasion. He told the tribes of a mighty lord, who was in need of loyal servants to further his cause, men who would fight alongside his army and be handsomely rewarded should he succeed. The wizard then told the nomads of a greedy and deceitful people in the North, who wore a symbol of a white tree, and desired to seize all of Khand for their own benefit. But, the mighty lord would protect the tribes if they swore their allegiance._

_From that point on, as the tribe members slit their palms and dirtied the sand with their blood, they made an oath to serve the mighty lord. They and their descendants would train their bodies for battle, breeding purposely for strength. This caused the tribes to shift again, segregating the weak from the warrior. These specialized groups focused on the creation of armor, weapons, and swift horses. They called themselves the Variags._

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><p><strong>Author Note<strong>: I do not have exact dates for these events, but I am fond of the idea that Saruman visited Khand when he and the Blue Wizards traveled to Rhun, considering he returned alone. What if he was more corrupt upon entering Middle Earth than others realized?


	2. Sworn Men

**Chapter 1: Sworn Men**

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><p><em>Spring, 3rd day of Ein-mánur, 3018<em>

The wind rummaged with force through the thin green spindles of deceptively sharp _zöldtú_, which covered a vast portion of Khand's prairie-like inlands. Golden puffs of sand and dirt whipped through the air like angry exhalations of a sleeping beast. Only the rhythmic pounds of hoof beats against the soil could be heard over such a wind.

"Mímir!"

A young woman, appearing only a few years into adulthood, sat atop a large mount. She rode with ferocity and confidence, managing her own steed and the rest of her group with ease, as was expected of her people. However, the concentration on her current task left her unaware of outside stimuli, like the frustrated male voice calling for her attention.

"Mímir! _Mímirovä_!" The man rode his own beast at high speed, kicking up a golden cloud behind him. Perhaps it was the use of her formal name or the throat-constricting particles of Khandian topsoil entering her lungs and obstructing her vision that had alerted her; regardless, she came to an abrupt halt.

"Bátkhuyag!" She pushed random strands of thick, curling hair away from her dirt-streaked face. A sudden cough emerged and she grimaced at the combination of saliva and bits gritty mud in her palm. "Do you wish to kill me? _Fai_ has told you how dangerous it is to breathe in _eitr'homok_!" Mímir wiped her hand against the rough fabric of her cloak. Truthfully, the soil of Khand was quite toxic in larger doses.

"Settle down, Mímir. I doubt the _homok_ would do us such a favor." Bátkhuyag grinned easily and ruffled his younger sister's hair. He was a large man, although not unusually large for their people, with a thick red beard and mane that he often had her braid. His arms were larger than the post she often tied her mare to, his legs larger still. Mímir thought she might be frightened of him, had he not been her brother. Although, outside of battle, his nature was primarily gentle – especially with his younger siblings and the horses. "Indeed it was _Fai_ who sent me to fetch you. _Eitr'kheree _has sent his bastard servants here to inspect our brood." He motioned to the group of horses lazily chewing on prairie grass. "_Fai _wants you to return to the tent with _Mati _while they are here." One rough hand brushed the dirt from her cheek in a rare show of brotherly affection. "There will be war, Mímir. He does not want it to touch you, the way it has _Mati_."

Mímir was too young at the time of the occurrence, but she had heard whispered stories and the cries of her _Mati_ long into the night. The truth of what had happened, she feared, would always be a mystery to her. _Fai_ and her siblings had long kept the secret, and felt Mímir was lucky to be so unknowing.

"I will follow you, Bátkhu. But it is rather tiring, this constant hiding and cowering from _Eitr'kheree_." She huffed, attempting to restrain her own wild head of hair that had once been tied back by a leather strap. "Is he really so powerful? Even _Fai_ is afraid of him." Mímir eyed her brother suspiciously. "_Fai _is never afraid."

Bátkhuyag was forced to remember that his sister, while diminutive compared to himself, was now a knowledgeable young woman and no longer a child. Lying to her would prove difficult, but her safety was his utmost concern. He grinned, knowing it would irritate her. "Ah, to be young and foolish." Taking a strand of her hair between his fingers, he tugged on it, inspiring more of her ire. "It shows what you know of _Fai_. _Eitr'kheree_ may appear as an old man, but he has great strength that does not lie in his body, as ours does." He chuckled and caught her fist as Mímir attempted to strike him, initiating a game that they often played. "You have much to learn."

"There are times I wish to bury your head in the _homok_, Bátkhu."

Bátkhuyag nudged her slightly, almost knocking her off her mount. "Dearest sister, you are not alone."

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><p>A hush had fallen over the tribe as a band of Uruk warriors entered the camp. Though this was a frequent occurrence, the gravity of the visit was never taken lightly. Men could die today for nothing more than being an irritation, and self defense was considered traitorous. That had been a hard lesson learned when they first started taking the women.<p>

"_Sain_, Captain Rûgrhak." A large man with wild, ruddy hair and a leather patch over one eye greeted the Uruks. His form was quite large, about the size of the Captain, and he was devoid of armor aside from the small axe at his belt. His clothing was comprised of a light-weighted material, all in shades of brown, perhaps for the purpose of camouflage against the desert backdrop. While the atmosphere surrounding the new visitors remained tense, the large man was strangely calm and well-practiced, not flinching at the sight of the deformed and frightening faces before him. He placed the fingers of one calloused hand to his forehead and then gestured outward, in his tribe's customary signal of welcome and respect. The pleasantries, meager as they were, occurred primarily for show. It settled the anxiety of the people, and amused the Uruks, who would have preferred loss of limb to a kind 'hello'.

"At'beyi." The Uruk, Rûgrhak, stepped out from his kinsmen. The mottled skin of his upper torso and face seemed to be the after effect of extreme heat, as if he had been half dunked in flames. What wasn't burned was horribly scarred, to the point one might consider him a mutilated corpse walking. Portions of hair, which had not escaped a decent coating of grime from travel and grew sporadically along the backside of his skull, had been braided roughly and tied back. Most disconcerting, aside from the overly-large black irises and jumbled fangs, was the strand of human-like teeth worn on a string about his neck. "I am here…to inspect…" Rûgrhak's words were heavily accented and clearly difficult to form. Only a handful of Uruks knew the language of the tribe, and even they knew very little. Fluency had never been the goal; simply accurate communication to meet an appropriate end. Their master wanted warriors and horses, and that was all that needed to be discussed.

"Yes, Captain. Let me show you to our tents."

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><p>Despite her mother's warning, Mímir still peered through the thick fabric of the family dwelling, wanting to observe the Uruks before her father sent them away. Not that one could easily dismiss those grotesque creatures. It would take half of the day, she knew, to inspect the most recent group of warriors training under her father. Even then, additional slaves might be needed.<p>

There had been rumors throughout the camp regarding the nature of the Uruks. How similar and yet unlike their smaller counterparts they were. _Fai _had told her that, as a small boy, his own father had dealt with the smaller servants of _Eitr'kheree. _They preferred the cover of darkness, so such visits were made in the middle of the night. Mímir was at least grateful the Uruks seemed to dismiss the light of day, knowing that their presence in the camp during periods of darkness would steal her sleep forever. Such faces already brought nightmares.

One Uruk, as if hearing her thoughts, turned to where she was partially hiding behind the fabric. Strange golden eyes, like sand beneath a brook, met her own. She jumped backward, feeling the flesh on her arms and neck sting.

"I said get away from there, Mímir."

A slight woman with remarkably light hair and skin grabbed Mímir's cloak with a weathered, almost translucent hand. That action alone absorbed most of the woman's strength, so the younger of the two quickly held her up for support.

"_Mati_, you should be resting."

"I will rest when I am dead."

Mímir resisted the urge to snort and led the woman to her bed. _Mati _would reach that end soon enough, if she continued on the way she did, although those thoughts were not expressed. "I will not suffer _Fai's _wrath by letting you wander. He would cast me out to the _kötülfr_ for certain."

"Nonsense."

Bowls of broth were passed and the women began to eat in relative silence, although Mímir's eyes fastidiously guarded the tent opening, waiting for a visitor she hoped would never come. Such strange golden eyes.

"Have you seen Og'drel?"

Mímir turned her attention to her mother. "I thought she was with Vígbataar."

That suggestion was clearly confusing to the woman who appeared much older than she should have been. Simple events were becoming more difficult to recall, and at times her own children seemed strangers with familiar faces. "No…no. She was fetching water…from the well by the dunes…I believe."

The bowl of broth tumbled out of Mímir's hands.

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><p>"These will do…he will…be pleased." Rûgrhak's eyes wandered around the camp, watching the obviously masculine figures stretch furs and buff recently cut antlers. Others were sharpening knives made from bone, or crafting plated armor. Every body was like his own: hard tissue throughout, though smooth and human. None here carried soft sacks of flesh, or curved inward at their center in that enticing way, making his body burn. None here, although he remembered there had been. "Where are your <em>ghâshkû<em>?" When there was no response, he tried again. "Your…women?"

The man called _At'beyi_ looked as if he had been stabbed with a poison-tipped dagger. Rûgrhak assumed that he had finally realized the inadequacies of his race, and was experiencing the true fear only a Captain of the Uruks could bring forth. However, the eyes of _At'beyi_ were not trained on his imposing form, but over his shoulder. Rûgrhak turned and spotted the object of the human's horror.

A slim figure appeared among the grass, carrying two large waterskins in dainty hands. The pale skin of her face was brightened by the blaze of hair haphazardly placed around it. Perspiration grasped at the thin dress she wore, making it cling to her flesh. So heavy was her burden that imminent danger remained unapparent.

Rûgrhak felt the heat rising in his torso and snarled with pleasure. Just what he had been asking for. "_Ghâshkû."_

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><p><em>Elsewhere…<em>

A fire grew in a small hearth, warm flames engulfing the gray logs like a ravenous predator. Its spark illuminated the room in a pairing of dancing light and shadow, as two figures stood by in solemn yet anxious silence. The larger of the two, a lanky man with a long beard and heavy brow, knelt before the hearth with his arm outstretched. The desired object, a band of gold, was retrieved and cooled before it was dropped into the man's weathered hand. He inspected it carefully, as if expecting something that was not there. There was an exhale of relief and a droplet of moisture rolled down the man's brow.

At that moment, the gold began to glow, seemingly inhaling the warmth of the fire and exuding its flames in a circle of gleaming script.

_Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,_

_ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul._

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>I've realized, through laying out later chapters, that I might have underestimated the depth of work that goes into a well-constructed OC story. Especially with this fandom, where Mary Sue-ish characters abound and 10th Walkers run about like the plague (perhaps they could have their own TV show?). It's a fine line to tread, and I must say the possibility of ruining all that I have constructed so carefully is high. However, I find myself attached to this story and these people that I'm trying to add flesh and bone to. The curse of a writer, it must be.

As always, thank you for reading. Criticism, praise, questions - they are all accepted with pleasure.

**Translations:**

_Ein-mánur _= Month of April

_zöldtú _= Khandian prairie grass

_eitr'homok _= A slightly toxic sand that can be deadly if ingested.

_Fai _= A shortened form of Faiör, meaning 'father'

_Mati _= A shortened form of Matká, meaning 'mother'

_k__ötülfr_ = Large hyena-like beasts, similar to Wargs, that roam the desert.

_ghâshkû _= Orcish word for human women (not canon)

_Eitr'kheree _= What Mímir's tribe calls Saruman


	3. The Price

**Chapter 2: The Price**

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><p>The prairie was awash with blood. Blades of <em>zöldtú<em> were spackled brown and held bits of flesh or tufts of hair. A man's headless body sat partially beneath a dune, as the desert wind remained relentless as before. No one worried about losing the body before a proper burial, as the stain from his death still leaked through the sand, working as a proxy grave marker. One long braid, still attached to mangled skin, lay feet from the body. His head had been taken.

Mímir had never seen death in this manner. Battle wounds, of course, were familiar. Even loss of limb. But this man's death, his murder, resurfaced as the most terrible event she had ever witnessed. If her memories weren't enough, the tacky substance still coated her fingers, as she had grasped him where he fell. She had meant to speak, to reassure, but she quickly learned that words would be unnecessary.

And her sister…

A harsh exhalation passed her lips, spewing a mixture of tears and saliva. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, feeling the warm liquid squish beneath her pads. The lone waterskin sat on her lap, revered as the last object Og'drel had touched. She wanted to both fling it into the dunes and guard it fiercely.

"Mímirovä."

She ignored the voice, wanting to mourn alone. But there was a light warmth sitting on her shoulder; a hand, resting as a means of comfort.

Bátkhuyag ached deeply as his younger sister sat in the sand, tarnishing her face with a dead man's blood. There was something he should have done. He felt it, the nagging urge to right a wrong that could never truly be righted. Since childhood he had trained as a warrior, and as his family needed that warrior, he failed. A bitter taste it was. "Please, don't cry." It was a ridiculous request, but if he couldn't save one sister, he could at least save the other's tears. "Please, Mímir, I beg of you. Do not cry. I can't bear it."

She choked and turned to him, trails of tears and blood extending from lash to chin. "I cry because _I_ can't bear it." A fist furiously rubbed her cheek. "Don't ask for selfish things, Bátkhu. It is unlike you."

The ache in his chest rose to his throat. "You are right. I am sorry."

The sound of footfalls came from behind him, and he knew instinctively that it was his brother.

"Get her up."

Bátkhuyag had faced Vígbataar's abrasiveness since childhood, as both had entered this world together, but there were moments when even he had more than he could stand. "Have compassion, brother." He angrily met the other man's eyes, hoping to transfer feeling. "Or did you not lose a sister also?"

It happened so quickly, Mímir barely registered the missing warmth of Bátkhuyag's hand before she realized that he was held before Vígbataar in a white-knuckled grasp.

"_Matká_ is in the tent. She needs her. And _Faöir_ is calling a meeting." Vígbataar spat his words like insults before pushing his brother away. "I will not sit and weep like a beaten child when action can be taken to reverse what has transpired."

Mímir wiped her face on her sleeve and pushed herself off the ground, grasping Bátkhuyag's arm while noticing that he was still quite shaken by their brother's words. "What do you mean? What is _Fai_ planning?"

Vígbataar had been glaring furiously at his brother, but turned his attention briefly to Mímir as she spoke. Visibly, the skin around his eyes softened, although is expression remained rather grim. "The men are forming a band to search the prairie. But that does not concern you. Go to _Matká_."

Heat closed around her throat like a large hand, and she felt the burn rise to her cheeks. Twice in one day she had experienced such fury. "How dare you!" Bátkhuyag's arm was holding her back, being the first indication that she had pitched herself forward. "Not my concern! Do I not share her blood? What separates my concern from yours, Bataa? That you are a warrior and I am a breeder?" His face twisted and she was certain that Vígbataar had come close to slapping her, which he had never done before.

"Dangerous words, Mímir. Speaking so openly like a wench, not a tribe leader's daughter."

"I have heard you prefer wenches, Bataa-"

"ENOUGH!"

Bátkhuyag had stepped in front of his sister, all the while hoping it was needless - that he would not need to shield her from Vígbataar's temper.

His brother snarled and lowered the hands that had been raised in a moment rage. "I will not strike her, and you are a fool if you think otherwise." Vígbataar's eyes met Mímir's, and he suddenly looked more like _Faöir_ than he ever had. "Although she shows great disrespect to one who only means to protect her."

Guilt. She felt it so plainly, and yet, her words were not regretted. Hurting her brother was not her intention, and she believed she had done so. But, how would he ever understand that she was a woman and not a child? When would she be granted the respect that she was expected to give? Didn't he understand that she too wanted to save her sister? It was unfair to order her to the tent, to wait and worry. She watched her brother walk away, the muscles in his back tightly coiled and quite visible beneath the airy tunic. Guilt. She would need to speak to him.

"Go to _Matká_ for me, Bátkhu. I want to talk to Bataa."

Bátkhuyag's brow rose. "Perhaps you should do so later."

"No, I will do so now."

He sighed. "You are like the wind, Mímir. And I do not wish to battle when I know I will lose."

Mímir smiled sadly and patted his cheek, tugging quickly on a portion of his beard. "That is why you are my favorite brother."

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><p>Vígbataar surveyed the supply tent, grasping a recently constructed helmet roughly. He examined the bone detailing, feeling the smoothness under his fingers, before thrusting the item to the floor. It bumped a cluster of iron swords and knocked them into a pile, clanging furiously as they went. "Are you here to discuss my preference in wenches?"<p>

Mímir shouldn't have been surprised that her brother had sensed her even while making such a racket. "No."

He knelt and slowly righted the weapons, testing the weight of the blades occasionally before returning to his task. "Then what is it?" He could feel her presence grow closer, and eventually tiny hands began working with his own. He let her struggle with a few of the larger swords before taking them from her. "Is this your way of apologizing? Or do you simply enjoy toying with my temper?"

Mímir could feel his scrutiny and had to resist squirming under its intensity. "Yes…and no." She met his dark eyes for a moment, before returning them to her lap. What could she say without angering him further? "What if _Fai_ won't let you go after Og'drel?"

Vígbataar studied her, wondering if the traumatic events of the day had caused her to lose her common sense. "We both know _Faöir_ is not that ignorant. I am the best warrior he has. Even you know this."

_Even._ As if she was finally smart enough to acknowledge an element of the culture she had grown up in. "What if you were not the best warrior?"

"I am her brother. Her blood. That would not mat-" He stared at her for a long moment, like a _dageyik_ caught between a mountain side and a Khandian spear. It would only take him a moment to regain mental footing. "It is my duty to protect my family."

Mímir tilted her head. "We are only a duty?"

"That is not what I meant-"

"What is _my_ duty?"

"Mímir-"

"To love my sister, and help with her safer return, I would suppose?"

"Mímir!" Vígbataar was reddened and breathing fiercely, his fingers twitching as they held inches from her shoulders. They remained thus, as brother and sister sat in silent duel, both pairs of similar dark eyes unmoving from the other. Strangely, the elder broke contact first. "Must you be so difficult?" His hands fell to her shoulders in a light grasp.

"Must you?" It was unusual to be touched by Vígbataar at all, and his gentleness was surprising even as he intended it to be so. Mímir had expected gruffness and bruising when he thought his grasp was soft. He chuckled at her then, although it lacked the warm mirth she found in Bátkhu.

"Oh yes. I must be difficult when I have a sister who is equally so." He rubbed her cheek with this thumb, removing some of the dried blood as new tears mingled with it. "I am not your Bátkhu, easily bent to your every whim." His intense brown eyes met hers again. "But believe me when I say I will find our sister. And I will bring her back."

Mímir could only nod, finding her voice caught in a mixture of renewed sorrow and blossoming relief. He had hesitated in saying 'alive', she noticed, as Og'drel could be long dead and left to rot in the dunes. But she believed that he would find her, even if he spent the rest of his days doing so.

They sat in silence, with only the occasional whimpers from Mímir filling it. Vígbataar had watched her exhaust herself, venting the sorrow and frustration onto the sand. His hand was still at her shoulder, although it occasionally brushed her back or removed a strand of wet hair from her cheek. It only took a few moments for her breath to settle into an easy 'in and out', and Vígbataar took that moment to stand, offering his hand to her as he did so.

"You did not ask me to stop, Bataa."

He felt her small hand in his, and remembered a time when he had cautiously helped a dark haired child onto a horse for her first ride. "No, I did not. You deserve to grieve in any manner you wish. Do so for the both of us."

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><p>A meeting was called to order. Every able-bodied man would attend, especially the kin of the decapitated man now resting after a proper burial. The sun had set and the sand grew cool, so they set a fire. The flickering light danced on grim, bearded faces. Most were high on revenge, others wary of its consequence.<p>

"We will leave within the hour. Although they have the ability to travel through the night, I believe they will stop to make camp." Ev'iyesi, known to outsiders as simply _At'beyi_, spoke to the group in a firm but hushed tone. "Especially given the circumstances…" He paused for a moment, staring into the fire, his thoughts treading lightly on the outcome of his daughter's kidnapping. The blunt fingernails of his right hand drew red crescents into his palm. "We will find and ambush them, on my signal. None will be left alive. Use whatever manner you wish, but be thorough. We do not want word to make its way back to _Eitr'kheree_." He fingered the dagger at his waist. "He will know of our deeds soon enough."

The group was silent. Some eyed each other nervously, while others continued to focus their anger at the fire. One man, out of the nervous bunch, decided to speak first.

"This is nothing new to our people. We have suffered years in this way." He inspected Ev'iyesi suspiciously, as if uncovering a secret. "Why now do you wish to fight?"

The camp grew tense, starting to understand what the man was insinuating. Encouraged by their silence, he continued, "Because it is one of your own?"

A crudely-made dagger was aimed at the man's throat before he registered the tip slightly piercing his flesh. "The first was one of mine." Ev'iyesi spat, pressing the iron until a droplet of blood ran beneath the neck of the man's tunic. "Don't you forget that."

Bátkhuyag and Vígbataar stood the moment their father drew his weapon, both prepared to finish the fight before the man gained supporters. Bátkhuyag placed his hand on his father's shoulder, silently urging him to step back. "It was not just our family wronged by the Uruk-hai." He motioned to four men sitting together, each already armed for battle. "Your Övinnik stood in Og'drel's defense, and was slaughtered." The men were nodding vehemently. "We are Variags. The might _At'beyi_! We will no longer stand and watch as our women are taken and brothers are murdered." Bátkhuyag's words of encouragement culminated in a final shout. "For Övinnik, we fight!"

The men stood with fervor. "For Övinnik!"

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><p>Mímir watched the men return to their tents. She had listened to the meeting unnoticed, as most were more concerned with the matters at hand than the young woman sitting just outside the tent's braided grass wall. Poor Övinnik. He had been infatuated with Og'drel for years, and both sisters had assumed that one day he would ask <em>Fai<em> for her hand.

_Og'drel._ Mímir wondered how her sister was at this moment, hoping that they were seeing the same stars. She was not as naïve as her family seemed to believe, and knew parts of the damage inflicted on the women taken into Uruk camps. But those thoughts she pushed away, knowing that they were too horrid to ponder. She had to have hope. Hope that Og'drel was alive and whole while _Fai_ and her brothers searched for her. She would deal with the reality of what had occurred, and what could be occurring, later.

A wail came from her right, and Mímir jumped in fear at the haunting sound. Which, strangely, sounded so familiar. She heard it again, only this time it was but a whisper of what it had been. _Mati._

She ran as quickly as the sand would let her and roughly parted the fabric of the tent's opening. "_Fai_!"

Ev'iyesi knelt on the floor, seemingly in shock as he touched the three large abrasions down his cheek and across his good eye. _Mati_ stood away from him, grasping her wrist and staring at the blood that stained her fingertips. She glanced at Mímir, her face and hair becoming one in stark whiteness.

"Go, Mímir. Let me deal with your _Mati_." Ev'iyesi was on his feet, although his soft words to his daughter stirred a rage in his wife.

"Yes! Go! You will be next, Mímirovä! He will let them have you, like Og'drel!" The woman's eyes were red where they should have been white, and the stain on her fingertips now tainted her night clothes. "Why did you not stop them! You know what will happen!" She shrieked, talking to both her husband and daughter, and perhaps even herself.

"Chinüa, stop this! You'll injure yourself!" Ev'iyesi grasped his wife's arms, which she must have expected because her fingers dug into him like talons. "Chinüa! Breathe, please. I promise, I will find her! Chinüa!"

In a moment of clarity, Chinüa fixed her pale eyes on her husband's face, although no remorse was apparent for her violence. "I cannot bear the thought-" Deep lines framed her thin lips, which curled above her teeth as she spoke. "I cannot bear the thought of burying another monster who shares my blood."

Ev'iyesi dropped her immediately and she slumped to the floor, her former spirit having departed. His ashen face turned toward Mímir and he grabbed her arm while rushing out of the tent.

"_Fai_, stop! Stop!"

Ev'iyesi did as she asked when they were yards from camp, engulfed in the shadow of the night.

"What is this, _Fai_? What does mother speak of?" Mímir pulled her arm out of her father's grasp, rubbing the spot here his hand and clung too tightly. "And why did you not save Og'drel when you had the chance?" She had wondered about this earlier, although voicing it had seemed too dangerous, even though he was her father.

Her _Faöir _turned away from her, staring off into darkness of the horizon. "If you only learn one thing, Mímir, learn this." It was where they had last seen a large Uruk haul a sobbing Og'drel away. "Everything comes with a price."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Thank you, to all of you who have viewed this story. I hope you're enjoying reading it as much as I am writing it! As always, I appreciate feedback.

And yes, as far as we know, Og'drel is quite alive. I want to tell her story, although I haven't decided if I want to merge it here or start a separate story after this one is complete.

**Translations:**

_zöldtú = _Khandian prairie grass

_Fai _= A shortened form of _Faiör_, meaning 'father'

_Mati _= A shortened form of _Matká_, meaning 'mother'

_dageyik _= A mountain deer, and primary food source

_Ev'iyesi_ _= Fai_'s given name, _At'beyi_ is the tribe's name

_Eitr'kheree = _Saruman


	4. The Used

**AN: **First things first, this chapter was rather difficult for me to write. I've never been shy about admitting the difficulty I have with battle scenes. I can see what I wish to happen, but translating that image to text (in an interesting and less formulaic way) is rather frustrating. I'm always open to suggestions there.

**Warnings: **Violence, some gore, and occasional swearing.

**Chapter 3: The Used**

The flat lands of the prairie were useless when trying to surprise an enemy, unless a warrior had the favor of the wind. It had the power to shift the dunes and cover the light of the stars with a hedge of darkness. Tonight, the _At'beyi_ had such favor.

Large masses rolled over the sand like sentient shadows. A figment of the imagination to an untrained eye, an inky bulk in the dunes which disappeared as quickly as it was spotted. Paranoia would ensue, a nervous questioning of what actually lurked on the plane. It would remain a subtle anxiety, until the edge of a blade slit through cartilage and bone.

Variag warriors rarely hid. It was dishonorable in their eyes to not face an enemy directly, weapons drawn, intent known. However, in desperate times many rules were forgotten.

The camp lay ahead, signaled by the light of a fire and the massive silhouettes surrounding it. Ev'iyesi gestured to his right, capturing the attention of the warriors hidden in darkness, their strange furred cloaks working as a matte surface to hide the glint of armor. They crawled forward, like murderous beasts, silently stalking unknowing prey. Ev'iyesi repeated the signal to his left. They would close in quickly. An Uruk's sense of smell was too enhanced and would detect any attack slower than an ambush.

Within yards, the _At'beyi_ snarled a war cry and charged.

* * *

><p>Captain Rûgrhak sat on one side of the fire, watching his men prod at each other verbally and physically. Blood was spilled, one might have lost part of a hand, but they quieted when he tossed the carcass of deer on the lot of them minutes before. The carcass was now just bits of bone, although he noticed one of the younglings still gnawing on the pink flesh of a leg. They were a useless bunch, the weakest of the recently bred. Expendable. Although, perfect for assignments like this: plundering, pillaging, and kidnapping. His master would not waste his best warriors on the petty tribes of Khand, even for breeding purposes. That was why he had sent Mahkôrz away.<p>

The silent Uruk had shown much promise, more than his master had first believed. The head of the young softskin warrior at his side proved that much.

_Man-flesh._

The scent assaulted his nostrils quickly before it dispersed. It was not the familiar tang of decay, but of warmed iron. They were here.

A chorus of masculine cries washed the plane, taking his kinsmen by surprise. By the time they raised their weapons most were run through. Rûgrhak grabbed the bicep of the warrior that charged him and jabbed his sword between the seam of the chest plate. The man jerked in pain and aimed for a blow at the Uruk's face, which was dodged. His elbow made crunching contact with the man's nose, pushing the cheek bone into his skull. The warrior crumbled.

With quick surveillance, Rûgrhak realized that most of his group had fallen, overpowered by the vengeance-hungry _At'beyi_. He met the next warrior with renewed fervor, grabbing the front of his tunic with one fist and collapsing his throat with the other, ignoring the slick burn of the warrior's sword as it grazed his torso. Furious, he jerked forward and dug his jagged teeth into the man's face, pulling back and dislodging a mass of fat and flesh. He grinned at the warrior's horrified expression, his screams unpermitted by the crushed larynx. Before Rûgrhak could continue, a shocking blow to the back of his skull sent his hulking body to the sand. He was grasped roughly from behind and placed on his knees, one warrior's hand pulling at his matted braid so he faced the men awaiting him. As if he needed such coercion. If anything, this Uruk had pride

"Where is my daughter!"

The iron tip of Ev'iyesi's sword cut into the thick flesh of the Uruk's neck. Rûgrhak pushed into it slightly, urging the black fluid to coat the front of his armor. A deep chuckled erupted from his chest and echoed through the dunes, the vibrations from his throat carried through the iron to Ev'iyesi's hand. "We are not simple." The words gurgled. Despite imminent death, the Uruk captain seemed delighted with the prospect, as if knowing his fate and welcoming it. "Your people…served their purpose." His grin was stained and a long tongue wiped the face of his teeth. "…the White Hand…thanks your _ghâshkû_-"

His head rolled in the sand, spilling a path of darkness with its blood. When it stopped, face up, the maniacal grin remained.

* * *

><p>Vígbataar wiped his sullied sword on a piece of his torn tunic. His father hadn't moved from the spot before the Uruk captain's headless carcass. It was a mistake killing him, and perhaps he had realized that now. If only that thought had occurred before the end of his blade severed flesh from bone. Og'drel's location was still unknown, and their only source of information was spilling himself into the <em>homok<em>.

"We're missing one."

Bátkhuyag dropped down next to him and motioned to the dead Uruks, and their pieces, littering the ground.

"One of what?" Vígbataar snorted, returning his attention to his blade. "I doubt they will be offended if you've misplaced an arm or leg."

"How would they feel about an entire body?" While one brother's fingers hovered over the iron resting on his leg, the other used his to repeat the tally. "Still, the same number." Bátkhuyag stared into the darkness, his eyes glazed, preoccupied with thought. A bloody forefinger and thumb pulled at the rough hair below his bottom lip.

Vígbataar silently waited for his brother to explain himself. Not one Uruk escaped. He and the men had made sure of that.

"They rode in a party of fifteen. There are only fourteen here."

Vígbataar followed his brother's hand as he pointed out singular bodies in the sand, repeating the count for his benefit. "It is as you say." His arm pulsed with power as he punched the ground in fury. "Damn it! We should have seen this before!"

Bátkhuyag had to agree, given the importance of their ambush, but his brother was often too condemning where his own actions were concerned. "Perhaps this will work in our favor. Og'drel was not here with these bastards, but she held enough value to be sent away." He could see his brother's keen mind working. "It is likely that the Uruks would have gone on to the next camp, but they did not wish to do so with our sister. Where would they have sent her instead?"

"To Rhûn."

Ev'iyesi hadn't bothered to flick the black blood from his sword, so it dripped into the sand as he walked. The grooves on his face, around his eyes and cheeks, seemed deeper than they ever had been. "The Uruks have a base camp on our borders. They stop there when supplies run low."

Bátkhuyag stole a glance at his brother. This was the first time they had heard of such information, although it appeared that _Faiör_ had known for some time. "And you believe that Og'drel was taken there?"

The older man tangled his sullied fingers in his ruddy braid, exhaling roughly. "Yes. There first. And then to the tower."

Both brothers gasped. "Orthanc!"

* * *

><p><em>Eriador, Near the Shire<em>

_May 1, 3018_

The air was cool and damp over the Ford. A dense fog crawled along the long grass, covering the blades with a sheen of sparkling dew. A tall man, cloaked in heavy green wool, leaned against the rough bark of a tree and toyed with a long pipe. He had started a small fire a few feet past the tree line, right beside a worn hut. Despite the warmth it would have provided, the traveler remained on the bank, his shrewd grey eyes watchful and alert.

In the distance, a lone figure rode swiftly. He gave a quick signal with his hand, which was returned.

"Mithrandir, I am glad to see that you are well."

The rider dismounted with relative ease and readjusted his large-brimmed, pointed hat. "As am I, you, _Strider_." His dark eyes twinkled in poorly hidden humor under heavy brows. A pipe appeared from beneath his grey robes, and he joined his companion in the ritual. "I have word from the Shire." His words were punctuated with a puff of smoke. "Frodo will depart in September."

Strider, as he was referred, tapped the mouthpiece of his pipe against his chin. "And he understands the gravity of his journey?"

The grey rider took a moment to search his own thoughts, inhaling slowly. "Yes, I believe so. He is a smart lad, well taught and astute. Much like his elder cousin." A fond smile graced the man's lips. "Although, I dare say, with less curiosity and more wisdom. A fine combination."

They were silent for a few moments, listening to the rush of wind through the leaves, the buzz of insects hidden in the grass, or the sound of hooves on the dirt path. Strider studied his companion, taking note of his words and the expressions on his face. "You greatly admire them, these Hobbits."

Mithrandir blew a final stream of smoke into the air, and it curled in the breeze before disappearing in the darkness. "Yes, very much so."

* * *

><p>It had been weeks since the men left in search of Og'drel. Mímir still desperately clung to the hope that they were simply detained, although with each passing day that hope dwindled. No word ever made its way back to camp, aside from one messenger with news of a neighboring tribe. Their camp had been pillaged and burned, the warriors and young women enslaved. Such a large feat, as they were such a large tribe, could not have been committed by the group of Uruk-hai they sought. It would take a large number to enslave so many warriors. She had felt a moment of relief then, because her father and brothers could still be alive. Although, such news also meant that the <em>At'beyi<em> were still in danger. They had not been visited since the attack on Övinnik and Og'drel, which meant another visit would soon be in order.

And _Mati_ was very ill.

Mímir had never trained under an _et'büti_ and she feared she lacked the bedside manner that was needed for such a profession. Og'drel was better at such things, and as it stood she was also the camp's last healer. Aside from _Mati_.

"Og'drel, come here."

Mímir had become used to hearing her sister's name, rather than her own. "What is it, _Mati_? Are you thirsty?"

The slight form of a woman shifted beneath the thin blanket of her pallet. A long white braid snaked its way over her bony shoulder, which blended seamlessly into the white of her night clothes. In the dark, she had the look of an apparition, and Mímir shuddered at the thought. The _vilí_, her father had called them, shadows of women long dead.

"I wish to tell you…a story." The voice was faint, caught in the weakness of her throat. Her pale fingers gestured for Mímir to move closer. "You must know this story, now that you are one of them."

The forgetfulness and confusion, which _Mati_ normally illustrated, had become worse since the capture of Og'drel. She seemed to see herself lost in the past, but with foresight. As if her knowledge would later save her family from the danger to come – the danger that had already plagued and tore them apart. In _Mati_'s mind, Og'drel had yet to venture to the well and her husband had never gone off on a vengeful quest. Mímir wondered if, in her mother's construction of reality, she had even been born. Her existence so far had never been brought up.

"You remember, Og'drel, when they came for me." Her voice rasped, and Mímir handed her a small clay cup. "You were young, but you remember."

Mímir said nothing, although she did remember. Not as Og'drel, of course, but from the dim perspective of a tiny child. She remembered screaming and fire, huddled close to Og'drel in the dunes away from camp. It was difficult to conjure the images in her mind, but the feelings and sounds were there.

"They took me far away. I do not know how long the journey lasted, for the days ran together." Her form began to shiver, curling upon itself. "They did not _hurt_ me…not at first. Not until we reached the tower."

_To __Eitr'kheree__. _She had heard the whispers about the old wizard, and had never quite understood her people's loyalty to him.

"I…I was held there…for two summers. It was…the longest two summers of my entire life." Mati's voice cracked with her effort and she sipped the cool water in her shaking hands. "One of the monsters was chosen for me. It…_he_...forced himself and…" She took a shuddering breath and her entire body quivered. The clay cup tipped in her palm and the liquid splattered onto her gown. She stared at it, where it spilled against her stomach, and fingered its outline. "I carried a child."

There was a noise, a rush of wind or water, echoing in her ears. Mímir realized that she had been holding her breath and choked, pressing her fingertips to her temples to ease the pounding discomfort. A child? So the rumors were true. She had assumed something similar to this, but hearing the truth from the mouth of her own mother was a shock too awful to be described. _"I cannot bear the thought of burying another monster who shares my blood."_ She had been morbidly curious after that moment and travelled to the graves of her people. There, where her ancestors sat in rest, was a tiny stone marker. So tiny, if you were not looking for it, you would not have found it. At that moment she knew her mother had experienced a great trauma, and wondered about the life that had lived so shortly and was buried in the sand.

"Do you not believe me?"

Mímir met her mother's eyes for the first time during their conversation. The pale depths, everything so pale, both called and repelled her. An appearance of any other would be foreign, as this was the only _Mati_ she had ever known, but Og'drel had long discussed a vibrant woman with beautiful dark hair and piercing eyes. Og'drel had loved this woman dearly, and she told Mímir in secret that she desperately missed her. The woman that had replaced her, the woman Mímir had grown to love, was merely a shadow of the former. "No, _Mati_, I do believe you."

This response seemed to placate the woman. "I had hoped you would, Og'drel. This is a horrible thing that will happen to you." She smiled then, a sad curve of her lips coupled with downcast eyes. "But you will survive, as I did."

Mímir felt warmth rush through her, the kind that initially feels sharply cold before burning, and wanted to jump to her feet and argue that this was not surviving. It was existing! Barely so! But, she quickly reprimanded her thoughts. It was easy for someone to condemn the lifestyle of a grieving person when they had never experienced such grief firsthand. Would Og'drel become this shade of a woman? "It is time for you to rest, _Mati_."

The woman nodded, but was clearly distracted with her thoughts. She let Mímir pull a heavier blanket up to her shoulders and settled against the cushions behind her. "Would you do something for me, Og'drel?"

Mímir began to wonder if she'd ever forget to answer to her own name. "Yes, what is it?"

Chinüa's brows furrowed, creating deep lines where they were normally faint. "Take Mímir to the graves. Tell her what I have told you." Her eyes closed and in that instant Mímir knew what her mother would look like in death. "Tell her…about the child."

It was odd, being referred to as if you were not the person you were, but Mímir acknowledged her mother's wishes. "I will tell her, but you must know that she has seen the grave. She had talked with _Fai_-"

"Don't listen to that bastard!" She barked. For the second time, Chinüa grew strength in her anger. She grasped Mímir's wrists to the point of bruising. "He killed it! He killed it with his hands! My baby!" The pale eyes were wide in fear and fury, and she shook her daughter with every rough pull of her hands. "But he doesn't know, does he? No, he doesn't. Doesn't know."

The innumerable emotions flickering in Chinüa's eyes frightened Mímir, and she attempted to pull away but the grip on her wrists did not abate. People had spoken of her mother, of her instability, but Mímir had not wanted to believe. Now, as she fought with her own daughter, snarling like a rabid animal and strangely mourning the death of a bastard monster, Mímir had to face an unkind reality. "Doesn't know what, _Mati_? What doesn't _Fai_ know?" She was trying desperately to ignore the image of her father's massive hands wrapped around the tiny body of an infant. An Uruk infant.

"There is another."

Mímir exhaled, fighting the urge to purge her stomach. "Do you mean out in the sand? But, _Mati_, I looked and-"

"Not in the sand. Not buried."

* * *

><p>Mahkôrz cursed the rugged terrain as he ambled over dunes and rocky outcrops. He had been traveling for weeks, almost continuously, bearing the burden of an unconscious <em>softskin<em> over his shoulder. His pack was almost empty, all supplies utilized rather quickly, especially with the extra load he was hauling. If he didn't find the nearest camp soon, they both would meet an unpleasant end. Although, he supposed he could eat her.

For the first time in weeks, he grinned. _Sharkey_ would shit his robes, and that alone would almost make it worth the whippings and potential death.

A pile of rubble entered his path, and he lost footing for a moment. Fuck, he hated this land almost as much as he hated his master.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Well...are you all still with me? I'm taking liberties with however Saruman truly went about reproducing the Uruk-hai, while trying to write a story that's as plausible as possible. Does something seem _off_ to you? Let me know. I will probably get around to explaining how it is all done at some point in one of these chapters, but I will say now that I'm combining book and movie verse for this story.

Thanks for reading!

**A note on _softskin_: **I've read numerous stories where Orcs and Uruks alike referred to men as _whiteskins_. That makes sense for the men of the North, but as Khandian people are not normally fair-skinned, I had to come up with a more accurate designation.

Translations:

_et'büti _= The female form of 'healer'. Men of Khand rarely held this position.

_vilí_ = According to Khandian folklore, they are the souls of tortured women who have died violently or by an excess of emotional trauma.


	5. Steward Interlude

**AN: **Enter Boromir (and baby brother)! I have been waiting rather anxiously to delve into the mind of one particular handsome gent of Gondor for a while now. I wasn't always a fan, but such a tragic character eventually grew on me.

A big thanks to the handful of you who have reviewed! I really appreciate your thoughts and encouragement. Generally, I don't like taking up this section with responses to reviewers (I'd rather contact you directly) but _The Lauderdale_ posed a question that I'd like to address here: "we see that the women are summarily taken...but are they all voluntarily returned after a certain period?". Well, yes and no. Chinüa was an exception because of her status as a tribal head's wife. This will be explained more thoroughly in later chapters, but for now I will say that Saruman is a sick bastard and enjoys playing mind games with the tribes of Khand. He's too arrogant to believe that any uprising would actually cause a problem for him. Chinüa was a pawn used for breeding as well as demoralizing purposes.

**Warning: **The content of this chapter might deviate from the canon. Surprised?

**Chapter 4: Steward Interlude**

_Minas Tirith_

_July 4, 3018_

The morning had barely begun to stretch its light across the sky, pulling back the shade of cloud and star. Only a few stirred, as most were no longer bothered by the clatter of pots and pans or warrior's garb. One such warrior sat before a desk, carefully lifting a candle to a weathered map he had picked among the various littered in front of him.

"_I must go, Father. You know this."_

Boromir, son of a long line of Stewards, would not admit he now felt the anxieties of the journey he was about to undertake. Ever proud, he would face his task unflinching, even if he still did not know the way. "Useless…" He pushed the maps aside, pressing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.

"_We need you here, as Captain. You know this."_

He was not shirking his duties, as his father seemed to presume. His men were in the capable hands of his brother, who was a far better warrior than he was given credit for. Faramir hadn't always been his best pupil, being more interested in the old wizard Mithrandir's tutelage of languages and lore. The two would huddle for hours around dusty volumes of forgotten stories. Boromir, taking direction from his father, had been more wary of the wizard's visits.

"So, you are going."

A soft voice called from the entrance of his bedroom chamber, interrupted his musings. "Faramir." Boromir inspected his brother's sleeping attire, guessing that a fair night's rest had eluded them both. "I had hoped to find you before departing. Alas, you have found me."

A small smile graced the younger man's lips, which were framed by the beginnings of an unkempt beard. Normally the more fastidious of the brothers, his appearance caused a tug of concern in the eldest. "You may best me at tracking beasts, brother," Faramir teased, "but we both know that I am far better at keeping my whereabouts unknown."

A deep chuckled shook Boromir's bare chest, his smooth but scarred skin glowing amber in the candle light. "True, but we shall keep that between us." He slipped a tunic over his head and tightened the lacings of his breeches. "What do you have there?"

Faramir glanced at the small, leather-encased book in his hand. The edges were worn, and if he was not careful the pages could easily slip out of the casing he had made to protect them. "Poetry. One of mother's copies."

The younger of the brothers always had an interest in books, even before Mithrandir's interference, when they were but small boys. Boromir would pour over large tomes of histories and the battle strategies of his people, while Faramir hid under tables with small tablets containing fantastic stories of queer places and magical creatures. Fantasy had never appealed to Boromir, as the shadow over Mordor grew heavy and reality became too pressing to escape. "Those fancy words," he gestured to the book, "will serve you well when it is time to take a wife."

Faramir flushed brightly, the heat of his skin shining through the thickness of his beard. "I fear it will be a long time before such an event." He brushed the pages of the text in hand with his thumb. "After all, you shall be married before I."

Boromir scowled. "Nay, I will never take a wife." He reached for his belt, feeling the smooth leather beneath his calloused fingers. Such fingers stole the breath of men and were tainted by orc blood. They were not meant to caress a soft pale cheek or rosy lip. Certainly, he had a few boyhood dalliances, but none were meant to be more than that. Promises not made were promises easily kept. "I am a soldier, Faramir, too battle-hardened to handle a woman." He had only ever been close to one woman, and the memory of her sweet sad face in death made his mind resolute. "You will be a far better husband, brother. Marry for the both of us."

A light chuckle escaped Faramir's lips and he grasped the travelling cloak before Boromir had the chance. "Ah, but we are both warriors, brother." With a slight of hand, he slipped the small book of poetry into his brother's pack, while using the expanse of fabric as a shield. "You are too hard on yourself! Just ask the ladies of court."

Borormir grasped his brother roughly about the shoulders with one arm, and ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. "Well, could you resist such a face?"

The brothers laughed together, exchanging barbs about the state of their own handsomeness, and who was more so, knowing it would be the last time they would enjoy the other's company for many months ahead.

_Seek for the Sword that was broken … __In Imladris it dwells…_


	6. Company of Horse Lords

**AN: **At last, the story is starting to pick up speed. Most of the appropriate information in order to understand the Variags has been established. Feel free to continue sending me questions and I will do my best to answer them. To answer The Lauderdale: Boromir's travels will be featured, as he is a central character to the story. Although, everyone can expect him to reach Rivendell before this comes to an end.

In a change of pace, I have a question for you all. What would Eomer's éored call him? Captain? Marshal? Lord Eomer? Perhaps all of them? I have misplaced my copy of _The Two Towers_, so I haven't the luxury of pouring over the text to see if they refer to him at all. If whatever I choose bothers you, or is inaccurate, please let me know. Subtle inaccuracies, by mistake and not by purpose, drive me nuts.

AND: I will be using italics for when a character is speaking languages other than Westron.

**Chapter 5: Company of Horse Lords**

* * *

><p><em>Eastemnet, July 10<em>_th__ 3018_

His men were anxious. In these dark days, the emotion was not rare; however, their nervous energy was not restricted to roaming Orcs. Éomer, Marshal of the Mark, reined his horse as a band of riders appeared in the distance. He had sent a portion of his _éored_ near the Falls of Rauros, where bands of Uruk-hai were known to stop and make camp. There had been reports of strange travelers in odd cloaks wandering the Brown Lands. If they stepped one foot in Rohan, he would be sure to know of it.

"Marshal!" The lead rider called out, his voice barely discernible over the pounding hooves. Within moments, they were feet away, barely tugging at the reigns as their steeds knew instinctively when to slow and halt. The rider gasped roughly, straining to catch the breath he had lost, as if he had held it the entire travel from the Falls. "Marshal – we've found something."

Éomer raised a fair but thick eyebrow, noting the tremble in the rider's voice at the mention of this _something._ He was loath to admit it, but the _éored _had become increasingly suspicious of strangers and the unknown as of late. The ever dwindling health of his uncle was likely to blame. He had heard the whispers around camp of Théoden's illness, now considered by many a _possession_, the work of evil spirits holding tightly to their king's soul. They had never been a superstitious people, at least not until the common occurrence of the one his uncle called _Stormcrow._ Éomer had quickly lost faith in the king's judgment, wondering if the wizard held more wisdom than he was credited.

"My lord?"

Éomer left his musings for the moment, grasping the reins tightly. "Show me."

* * *

><p>Mímir could hear voices above her; deep voices, speaking a language that was foreign to her ears. She was afraid in that moment, forgetting where she was and what she had done to come to such a place. Only her fingers moved, feeling the pack against her thigh. She had been traveling, she remembered. And she was far from home.<p>

"_What is it?"_

"_A boy, perhaps."_

"_A Dunlending? What is that skin? Not a Warg."_

"_No, not a Warg. But something similar."_

She felt a hand in her hair.

"_But, Marshal!"_

Gently, her head was turned to the side, where one of the speakers crouched. Hands brushed the wild mass of curls away from her face. Her eyes remained closed in fear, although her curiosity to stare at the stranger before her was beginning to overcome her uncertainty.

"_Dark, isn't he? Not a man of Dunland."_

The fingers left her hair and studied her clothing, tugging at the _kötülfr _skin on her back. Mímir hoped they weren't scavengers, like those who resided in the hills of Khand. _Fai_ had always warned her about leaving items unattended when the camp travelled to their next location. Occasionally, those strange men of the hills would slither through the dunes in the night and take valuables or necessities. She had never seen one, but her father said they were outsiders, the exiled members of old tribes. These men, for all she knew, were exiles too.

Éomer lifted the strange wolf-like skin from the boy's body, peering beneath to see what state the stranger was in. From what he could detect, the boy was whole, despite a few cuts on his face and arms. He was also completely dirty. _"Fetch my horse. We will take him back to Aldburg."_

"_Shouldn't we take him back to King Théoden?"_

Éomer had no desire to return to Edoras, as an intensive interrogation over the works of his _éored _would be enough to leave him in mugs of ale for the rest of the night. _"No, we do not need to worry my uncle over a small boy."_

Mímir wished she could understand their strange words. Before she could contemplate what they would do with her, two arms wedged between her body and the dirt. She tensed as she was rolled onto her back and lifted from the ground. If the man holding her had felt her quivering muscles through his armor, he made no sign of it. The hands were adjusting their hold, and she felt her body being passed off to another, before lifting higher and again finding one arm around her shoulder and one around under her knees. The consistent movement reminded her body of how sore it was, and each hand that pressed into her skin almost made her gasp in pain.

"_Three of you shall ride back with me. The rest of you head to the north. If there are others with him, I want them found."_

Immediately the rumble of hooves filled the air, the party ordered to depart left without question. Mímir, although frightened, had remained unseeing for longer than she could bear. As discreetly as she could manage, she opened her eyes enough to see the light of day, yet still have her vision obscured by a cloud of eyelashes. The man on whose lap she rested was quite broad shouldered and wore a curious leather breastplate. It was heavily decorated and carved with silver swirls, unlike any armor she had ever seen. His hair, too, was a wonder. It was the color of dried prairie grass, or the soft amber sand found only near river beds. She had never seen such hair on a man. It cascaded down his shoulders in waves, like rippling water. Smooth, unlike her own. And his eyes –

"_I see you are awake."_

* * *

><p>The ride to Aldburg was tense and silent. When they reached its gates, Éomer led her to one of the main fires. It felt deliciously warm, and Mímir was thankful that she had packed insulated clothing. This climate was cooler than she was used to. She watched the man slave over a large black pot, where he stirred a liquid, before passing a clay bowl to her.<p>

Éomer had made attempts at conversation, realizing his native tongue wasn't understood, and switched to the Common Tongue. It was apparent that the child caught pieces of what he was saying, as those dark eyes met his quickly before turning away. It was also clear that the child was no boy.

Her dark hair, although covered in grime from travel, was fashioned strangely but clearly feminine. Her choice of apparel, however, was what caused his initial confusion. The long robe was too loose in the shoulders and much too long for her short frame. It must have belonged to a male relative, a father or brother. The animal fur she had draped over her was equally large, so he assumed it wasn't typical female attire, whatever those customs were in her native land.

"Will you tell me your name, girl? And where your company has gone?"

She eyed him again, rather suspiciously for someone who had been sitting in his lap for so long. He had hoped that she would realize he wasn't going to hurt her. Her fingers were twisting strands of her dark hair roughly, revealing her nervousness, while the bowl of stew sat untouched in her lap.

"Eat." Éomer gestured to his lips, hoping the sign was universal enough to be understood by this strange girl. Her coloring, although unusual for a maid of his knowledge, appeared rather sickly. He had seen sickness enough to recognize it, regardless of the body it resided in.

Mímir partially understood what he was asking of her, although his thick accent was difficult to sort through. He wanted her name, or so she translated. Could she give it to him? So far, he hadn't aimed to injure her. He was even feeding her now, which was a great sign of respect for her people. To be invited to a stranger's camp and be offered a meal was a sign of truce. Her already uneasy stomach turned at the sight of foreign meat chunks hidden behind odd white lumps in a pale amber broth. She lifted the bowl her nostrils, inhaling the aroma and finding it actually rather pleasant, before taking a dainty sip. When was the last time she had eaten? Her days began to merge the longer she traveled, and the confusion mounted when the stars began to change.

Éomer held back a smile as the girl appeared to be enjoying her meal, although she trying very hard to be discreet about it. "Good?" She hid her face behind her bowl, but nodded. He laughed outright. "I will have to tell my sister that I can best her over a meal as well."

A sister? She had seen no women in this tribe, only strikingly tall and muscular men, all with long hair of similar color. Unless, some of those were also women? _Strange people._

Éomer watched the girl inspect the goings on around camp, wondering if their ways were similar to hers. Perhaps he could try again to glean information from her. "Name?"

At this point, staring down at her almost empty bowl, she felt indebted to this stranger who had so far treated her with nothing but kindness. "Mímirovä." She glanced at him quickly. "My name." It was the first moment that she had ever been thankful to Bátkhu for using her to practice his Westron. _Fai_ had never seen the point in training a young woman for anything not involving homemaking and horses, and frankly neither did Bátkhu or Bataa, but the latter was always too busy to review language lessons.

"Ah, Mímirovä." He nodded in greeting, his low voice rolling over the vowels in a strange way. "Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark." He gestured to the grassy planes before them. "The Mark." Had she actually been a boy, as they first presumed, he would not be sharing such information with her. He might have even taken her to his uncle, if the trespassing proved a threat; however, as he studied the girl, he knew she could be no threat to anyone. The company she traveled with was an entirely different matter. He wished to know what his men would find.

"The Mark." Mímir repeated. It truly was beautiful and unlike any expanse of land she had witnessed. Everything was so…green.

Her admiration was amusing to Éomer, who sat a little taller with his head held higher. "Yes. The Mark." He gestured to himself and then to her. "You?"

What could she tell him? She was concerned for the safety of her people, and her current quest loomed over her shoulders like an impending storm. "Far away." She studied her fingers. "Very far."

* * *

><p>Night had closed in, and the girl lay before the fire on a mat that he had supplied. Éomer had tried questioning her further, but she became more introverted and solemn as he progressed. He decided to let her rest for the night. That alone took some persuading, as he had to repeatedly convince her that his men would not harm her, and that he would be here when she woke. She seemed slightly alarmed that he would be so close to her for the entire night, but eventually she finally managed to rest her head and close her eyes when fatigue won over.<p>

"_Marshal."_

Éomer's eyes left the girl and returned to the fire. _"What did you find?"_

"_There are tracks, one heading to the forests of the Wood Witch and the other toward Stoningland, but they are old."_

_Odd._ Éomer wondered if the girl was traveling alone, or if she had been left behind purposely. He clenched his fists, thinking of the cursed souls who would do such a thing to someone so young and innocent. If anyone treated Éowyn as such-

"_Sir, you should also know that we have a visitor." _

As the man spoke, the front gates opened to reveal a well-dressed traveler, leading a weary horse behind him. Both seemed slightly worse for wear, although the white stone on the traveler's collar glimmered in the fire light.

"Ah - Boromir, Captain of _Stoningland_!" Éomer leapt to his feet and greeted the visitor. They clasped arms whiles Éomer's men whispered excitedly. "To what do we owe this honor?"

Boromir's stern gaze softened in his weariness, his arm still gripping the other man's tightly. "I am on a journey, seeking counsel in the North." He observed the curious faces of the _éored_. "But I will discuss it with you later. After I have sampled your fine mead."

All of the men laughed heartily, delighting in the novelty of their famous guest. All had heard of Boromir, the great Captain of _Stoningland_, who lead his troops to multiple victories. Éomer offered him the best spot in front of his fire, and ordered a round of mead to be served immediately. Men that had huddled around other fires were tempted to inch closer, although knew it would be wise to wait for a word from their own captain.

After taking his seat on a long log before the fire, Boromir noticed a curled body lying next to its warmth. A young, female body. A quick glance at the blond Marshal, who appeared strangely sheepish, made him realize that the girl was forgotten at his sudden appearance. "Have you finally taken a wife, Éomer?"

The blond snorted. "Nay, not yet. Do you not think that she is rather young?"

Boromir wouldn't pretend to know anything about such matters. "Not for one as young as yourself, no."

That answer did not seem to appease the horse lord. "She is no matter, I wish to hear of this counsel you seek."

Boromir was still curious about the girl, wondering if she was of ill repute. Although, of his knowledge, the Third Marshal had never received any into his camp before. And she appeared to be no shieldmaiden. A mug of strong drink was handed to him, and Boromir took a swift gulp. The liquid burned his throat in a not entirely unpleasant way. His soldiers were fond of the stuff, but he chose not to indulge often. A captain had to be aware every second, especially in such times, and his pride prevented him from losing his good sense.

"Is it to your liking, Captain?"

Boromir ignored the Marshal's smug grin. "I dreamt of a riddle, telling me to seek a sword that dwells in Imladris." He set down his mug. "According to my father, Imladris is the Elven realm of Rivendell. I know it resides in the north, past Enedwaith, but that is all my maps can tell me."

Éomer was silent, reflecting on the information just shared. He met Boromir's eyes, his face half in light and half in shadow. "There I cannot help you. We do not travel so far, as part of that land is inhabited by the Dunlendings. There is bad blood between us, and you would do well to avoid them."

Boromir knew of such people, although had not dealt with them as the Rohirrim had. "I will heed your advice."

Both men finished their drink, one occasionally prodding the fire with a long poker.

"Of course, we may not have the maps you seek, but we will supply you with a fine horse."

Boromir glanced up at the blond. "And what is wrong with my horse?"

"You may have an impressive city built of stone, Captain, but we _Eorlingas_ know a decent horse when we raise one." Éomer grinned.

"Fine, I will take a horse.

* * *

><p>Mímir awoke to the sounds of laughing men. She stayed completely still with much effort, almost flinching as a body sat down near hers. Their conversation was difficult to follow, as most words were too foreign for an adequate translation. However, she did understand that the man next to her, whose face she couldn't see, was seeking advice on the meaning of a dream. If such was true, perhaps this wise person who could translate dreams could also tell her where she could find her family? It felt like a lifetime since she had laughed with Og'drel, teased Bátkhu, or fought with Bataa. She squinted tightly and her eyelashes grew damp. <em>There is a price for everything.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>ANx2: <strong>A note on Westron – I know it's not actually called 'Westron', but going into too many different languages and translations would be exceptionally confusing (I think, anyway). Most tribes of have their own dialects, although they are all very similar to the central language of Khand. And, since they rely on trade, I figure they would have been rather exceptional linguists. Ev'iyesi would have needed to speak with the men of Rhûn on occasion, perhaps Harad, and probably some men of the North. As Gondor was historically a primary enemy, knowing Westron would have been an excellent strategy.


	7. Oh Captain, my Captain

**AN: **You'll have to take note of the italicized place and time below the chapter titles to keep track of where we are. I made quite a jump between the last two chapters, and a part of this one will try to clear up the confusion, if you had any. This chapter was strangely difficult to write, and I had to scrap what I had written many times before I arrived at this. I'm still not completely enamored with it, but I could don't think I could bear another revision at the moment.

Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!

**Warning: **Some gore

**Chapter 6: Oh Captain, my Captain  
><strong>

_Border of Rhûn and Khand; June 3018_

The camp was completely decimated. Pieces of what once could have been orcs and men alike littered the sand, collecting in pools of mismatched liquid. The woven grass tents, meant for supplies or dwellings, lay flattened or dented, some suffering scorch marks or intricate splatters of coagulating black and red. Fur pelts were torn and tainted by innards, unrecognizable and collecting sand as they dried and crusted in the noon-day sun. The stench of the festering bodies grew almost visible, like the cloud of black insects hovering in the air. A few pierced and broken chests twitched in death, bloating to an unnatural state. Rhûnic armor lay bent and twisted around poorly constructed blades and clubs. Whatever had happened to cause such a gory skirmish ended the lives of everyone present.

Ev'iyesi wiped his brow with the back of his hand, fighting the urge to spill his stomach onto the ground. They had spent hours searching for tufts of brilliant red hair, finding none. Not even the carcass of the Uruk who carried her off into the dunes could be recognized, although given the state of the others, recognizing much was almost impossible. The sons, similar in appearance yet different in all else, sat next to him, upwind.

"I could not find anything." Vígbataar swatted at the sand between his bent legs, although the force was weakened by his state of physical and emotional fatigue. Bátkhuyag had his head in his hands.

"As much as you may not want to hear it," Ev'iyesi wiped his brow again, "I need to return to camp." He had expected outrage from his eldest, but both were silent. "Your mother will need me, and I must inform your sister of what has passed."

"What has passed, _Faiör_? We have found nothing!"

Ev'iyesi had to agree, although it pained him. Returning to his wife and daughter with such news almost seemed more horrible than bringing back a lifeless body. At least they would have had something to bury.

"I won't return without her."

Bátkhuyag lifted his head from his hands and sta\red at Vígbataar with widened eyes. "You must be joking. Where else do we search? Behind every dune? Under every rock?"

Bataa glared at the sand at his feet, sifting the fine particles through his fingertips. "If we must."

"This is madness! I care for our dear sister, but how can we go on?" Bátkhuyag stood. His brother would not listen to reason, especially from his often weaker counterpart. "_Faiör?_"

Ev'iyesi watched his sons, knowing their differences and accepting their weakness as they appeared. Vígbataar would listen to no one, that he was certain. When his mind was resolute, he was simply immovable. Bátkhuyag, perhaps, inherited more sense of the two. He was king and compassionate, although not the first to jump into the fray. If he could not sway his most stubborn son, perhaps both could journey together and overcome the other's shortcomings. "If that is what you wish, my Bataar, so be it. Bátkhu, you will go with him."

* * *

><p><em>Aldburg; July 11, 3018<em>

Barely dawn, with light sifting through the prairie grass from small crescent on the horizon, the sky was partially lit by a strip of gold. A few men stirred by the remains of the night's fire, many sleeping where they dropped from overindulgence. Only two sat beside those renewed logs, as the wood crackled and popped as it was consumed. They spoke quietly, discussing the day's journey over a quick meal. The darker of the two inspected his packs. He would depart as soon as possible, anxious to receive the answer to his riddle.

"Do not be in haste." Éomer pulled a chunk of moist innard from his portion of bread. "Tell me more about your trials. You say the bridge is fallen, but how secure are your borders?" He held the bread to his mouth. "My men and I do what we can, but there will be a time when it is not enough."

Boromir frowned, lightly rubbing the short hairs of his sparse beard with the backs of his fingers. "We patrol the western front, checking for those who seek passage over the river. Although, we too have had difficulties driving them back." He thought of Faramir and the icy waters of the Anduin. "But…we will continue our vigil…and Gondor will be victorious."

Éomer could not be surprised by the confidence of this great Captain. Stories of his strength and valor quickly spread throughout the Mark, although some would say that he was too confident and too proud. But the Third Marshal had respect for such attributes, especially with the rising darkness in the South and the devilry already tainting his land. He hoped to lead his men as Boromir of Gondor might. For, if a Captain did not have faith in the strength of his people, how could he succeed? "I do not doubt you, or the fortitude of your people. Perhaps your journey is not only for answers you seek? Will you also request aid in this _Imladris_?"

"No, I will not." Boromir, quickly emptied the bowl of warmed stew into his mouth, his vigor punctuating the stern response. This boy, although not untrained but still rather young, might not understand that the welfare of Gondor rested permanently on his shoulders. It was quite a responsibility to bear, especially given its current state of affairs. The Third Marshal's duties were vast, to be certain, but they were also shared among others in the Mark. Aside from Faramir's counsel, and the orders of his father, Boromir endured the weight alone.

The girl sleeping before the fire stirred, and both men paused their conversation to glance at her. She did not awaken.

Boromir tentatively set his bowl aside. "What of the child?" He whispered. "Certainly, with hair so dark, she is not of the Mark."

Éomer nodded at the distinction. "You are right - she is not of my people. My men found her near the Falls, alone and ill." He gave her face, from what he could see peeking out over the edge of her blanket, a swift inspection. Her color seemed close to what it must normally be. "We discovered tracks, but she had no company with her. Either she lost her way, or they abandoned her."

Boromir could not fathom any decent individual leaving such a young thing to survive alone. True, he could not see much of her, to truly guess her age. But her form in sleep, knees curled tightly to her chest, reminded him of a young Faramir who was often found curled in such a way in the library. On that resemblance alone he assumed her to be rather young. "From where does she hail?"

"She could not say." Éomer prodded the fire, which had begun to dwindle. "Her grasp of the Common Tongue is limited, so she indicated rather poorly that her home was quite distant."

"To the South?"

"We believe so, yes."

Gondor had dealings with the Haradrim and the Easterlings, but Boromir had never encountered a woman of either, although her dark hair was certainly suspect. If she was what they believed her to be, her existence on enemy lands would prove hazardous. Boromir wondered if her company would return for her, and how this _éored_ would respond under the circumstances. In such times of war, empathy wasn't a luxury easily afforded.

* * *

><p>Mímir awoke with the brilliant light of midday warming her face. She had slept longer than necessary, despite her body's desire for it. Her legs had cramped in the middle of the night, and she found herself near tears as she furiously rubbed them. Such were the effects of traveling too long without resting adequately, and she knew her mother would scold her for not taking better care of her body.<p>

The camp was quiet, and as she pushed herself up on her forearms she couldn't see a single sole at any fire or coming out of any of the roughly built dwellings. Had they left her?

The weight of her pack was resting beside her waist, and she was thankful that the man, _Éomer_, had been decent enough to leave it be. He could have rifled through it while she was sleeping, she supposed, but it did not seem quite in his character to retrieve information via stealth. He was forward, sometimes brusque, although not quite as much as his companion.

They called him _Captain_, this man with the smooth voice that rumbled deeply like a hooves of a fleet of her father's best horses on a dry prairie. She did not quite understand the meaning of his name, _Captain_, only that it resembled a word similar to 'a leader of men'. Like her father. Mímir wondered if this _Captain_ was in charge of his own tribe. Either way, his journey to the interpreter of dreams was intriguing. She had decided during the night, after overhearing and attempting to translate their conversation, that she would follow _Captain_. He would be disturbed by her presence, she was certain, as all men seemed to scratch and snarl at the interference of women. But her journey was of great importance to the safety of her people, and she had not travelled so long and risked her own well-being for naught.

Mímir pulled out the delicate scroll of parchment from her pack. She had been recording her journey, just as her father had recorded all of the important goings-on of camp, until her fatigue had caught up with her after crossing the waterway. She was ashamed of herself for her exhaustion, and knew Bátkhu would never let her forget the moment if he had known. The nomadic lifestyle they led had made travelling frequent; she should have been able to endure. _Although I have never travelled so far from home…_

The scroll was weathered, torn lightly at the corners and discolored. It was clearly gained in a trade long ago. She traced her finger over the intricate pictures her father had drawn. Each one told a story of the past, including important births and deaths. Her hand traveled to her own drawings, inferior compared to the others, but understood well enough. Rolled with the parchment was a map. It had been passed down to her father by his father, and detailed the land she was now in with beautifully drawn pictures and words in a foreign tongue. Without it, she didn't know where her wanderings would have taken her.

"You are finally awake."

Mímir jumped, quickly hiding the parchment beneath her blanket. It was _Éomer_, a bowl in one hand and a skin in the other, grinning down at her as if he knew she was caught. His hair seemed lighter, strangely, and he let it drape across his shoulders untied. His skin was also different, but that perhaps had to do with it being clean. He must have bathed recently. She was glad that her grubby fingers were hidden beneath the blanket.

"Here. Food." Éomer gestured to his mouth and then to the bowl. "Water." He shook the skin and the liquid inside sloshed.

Mímir wondered what he would do if she took the skin and dumped its contents on her head.

"Here, take." He presented both to her at a close enough distance for her to comfortably grab them if she wished. His eyes discreetly glanced at her lap, which still contained the hidden scroll.

Mímir uncovered her hands but left the parchment where it sat. The contents of the bowl appeared slightly different from what she had eaten earlier, but the odor was again not unpleasant. She hadn't realized how thirsty she had become until water was within her reach. The man sat down beside her, legs crossed with arms resting on his knees.

"Am I to believe that you are now well-rested, _Mímirovä_?"

Mímir chewed slowly and regarded him with steady dark eyes. It was very odd still, hearing her name from the lips of a stranger. She did not fear him, for he clearly meant not to harm her. Although, she did fear his interference with her quest. If he did not wish for her to leave his tribe, she knew it would be very difficult for her to do otherwise. From his build she knew he held great power, and from what he had said to her during her previous meal, he was also a man of rank. A leader of men, like _Captain_. She errantly wondered where he had gone, which led to a moment of dread at the knowledge that he might have already departed.

She quickly removed her bowl from her lips. "Captain?"

Éomer frowned, wondering if she was giving him that titled. He gestured to his chest with one pointed finger. "I am Third Marshal of the Mark."

Mímir shook her head. "Not _Éomer_." His name felt odd on her lips as she created the foreign vowels. "_Captain._" The word was stressed clearly, and if to emphasize what she meant more clearly, she gestured to the spot that _Captain_ had rested when next to her.

Éomer could not imagine to what she was referring, as he watched to furiously point to the ground. Perhaps, through her ignorance of the language, she was confused. "I still do not understand." He forced himself to not find amusement in her frustration, although the stern set of her brow reminded him yet again of another young lady who had also glared at him in such a manner. Although, he noted quickly that this girl seemed to have aimed most of her frustration at herself, as her eyes that had once held his own were staring past him.

"I see she speaks as poorly as you professed."

Both parties had been unaware of Boromir's arrival as they attempted to discuss where he had gone. Éomer chuckled, unsurprised by the Steward-Prince. "Unfortunately it is so."

Mímir willed her mouth to close. She had wondered what face would match the voice she had listened to briefly during the night. And such a face caused a brief moment of fright. His fierce, penetrative stare stirred within her an almost crippling anxiety. She had never seen such eyes. They took her back to her youth, when a strange cloud covered the prairie and the rain floated instead of smacking the dirt. She caught many in her hands, feeling the chill as they brushed her fingertips. They were beautiful, but there remained a discomfort in such beauty. His eyes were the same, like floating rain.

It took her only a moment to register the intensity of his expression, the straight strength of his nose and grim line of his lips. The pride in his stance indicated that he must have been like _Éomer_, a tribal leader. Although she could almost hear her father say that his beard was not long enough.

It only took those moments to realize that he carried a pack and a strange banner, which held a sort of crest that she assumed indicated the identity of his tribe. Before she could reconsider her response, perhaps readjust the tone of her delivery or redirect the accusing finger she already had whipped toward his chest, Mímir snarled. "Greedy White Tree!"


End file.
